Red Monday

The rugged individualist always gets the axe—
The poetry of being always springs from disaster—
There's always a moment of synaptic lapse
Before all the rationales come swimming back
To fertilize our eggs of delusion—

In that moment of panic, when nothingness stands naked—
When we hold on to nothing, and give nothing in return—
There's only a sob—that we were wrong and may be punished.

Where is the laughter on Wall Street?
Can we learn?
We are only the punchline,
A commodity at best,
Yet nursed by a generous heart
That needs such laughter
To live.